Mystery of the Flying Express

by Franklin W. Dixon

  Frank introduced their visitor. “Aunt Gertrude, this is Mr. Given. He owns the hydrofoil.”

  “Oh,” Aunt Gertrude said. “How do you do? I was just about to tune in the five-o‘clock news. There might be something on the waterfront trouble. You don’t mind, do you?”

  “No, of course not,” Given said as she snapped on the television set.

  Frank and Joe exchanged appalled glances, remembering how the TV camera had isolated them in the midst of the anti-hydrofoil picketers. What would Given think of that? Better ease him out of the house pronto!

  “No need for us to hold you any longer, Mr. Given,” Frank hinted broadly.

  “Here’s your hat, Mr. Given,” Chet said quickly.

  “Let me show you to the door, Mr. Given,” Joe offered as calmly as he could.

  Their visitor started to leave but turned back to the living room. “Come to think of it, I’d better hear the news too. The trouble your aunt mentioned is of great concern to me. Let’s see if they show the Flying Express on the screen.”

  “Good night, we’re sunk!” Joe whispered to Frank.

  Too late to do anything about it now! The camera swept across the milling crowd on the dock, then focused on a group of three—Frank, Joe, and Chet! Each was holding an anti-hydrofoil placard!

  Spencer Given turned purple with rage. “You were with the pickets trying to run me out of businessl” he shouted. “And to think I offered you a job! Well, you fooled me once, but never again! The deal’s off!”

  “Mr. Given,” Frank pleaded, “this wasn’t our fault. Somebody pushed those signs—”

  The TV picture changed to Chet doing his sleight-of-hand with the placards. In a moment he was holding up Frank’s arm. The lettering on the placard could be seen clearly:

  FRANK HARDY FOR MAYOR

  Aunt Gertrude chuckled at the antics of her nephews and their friend. “I think you owe the boys an apology, Mr. Given,” she said.

  “Well, perhaps I do,” Given said sheepishly. “For a moment I thought somebody was stabbing me in the back. Anyway, the deal’s on as far as I’m concerned.”

  The boys nodded their agreement.

  All the while Chet had been sizing up the caller. Suddenly he blurted, “Mr. Given, when’s your birthday?”

  The question took the boat owner by surprise. “What’s that got to do with my hydrofoil?”

  “It might have a lot to—” Chet began, but Given was impatient.

  “Cut the comedy,” he said and turned away.

  Aunt Gertrude chuckled and said, “Now I’m curious, Chester,” she said. “Mr. Given, please give the boy your birth datel”

  “March first,” Given grumbled.

  Chet clucked sympathetically. “Too bad! You’re a Pisces, governed by the sign of the Fishes. That bodes ill at this phase of the moon!”

  “Bah, what nonsense!” Given shook his head in disgust, said good-by to Aunt Gertrude, pulled on his hat, and left.

  “I don’t think he takes your astrology very seriously, Chet,” Joe remarked with a laugh.

  “Not as seriously as he takes his hydrofoil. That’s for sure,” Frank observed.

  “But they go together!” Chet protested. “The unfavorable conjunction of the heavenly bodies relates to everything he does—and that includes his commuter service to Cape Cutlass. There’s a lot of trouble ahead for Given.”

  Gertrude Hardy had been listening with mounting interest. “Chet Morton, what’s all this about you taking up astrology? Can you really cast horoscopes? How about mine?”

  “Sure, Aunt Gertrude. But it takes time to read the stars. I can tell you a few things right off the bat, though. Day and month of birth, please.”

  “Well, since you’re not asking for the year, I don’t mind telling you that I was born on August twenty-fifth. Which sign is that?”

  Chet gulped, blushed, and evaded the gaze of his questioner.

  “You—You’re a—a beautiful young goddess!” he stammered.

  Aunt Gertrude blushed. “Chet Morton, you’re impossible!”

  “Well, it’s Virgo, the sign of the Virgin,” Chet said lamely.

  Aunt Gertrude smoothed her hair with one hand. “Go on!”

  Chet continued the analysis. “Virgos have great analytical ability. They know how to get to the heart of important matters without wasting time on inconsequential details. They’re also sensitive persons who enjoy dealing with other people, and they prefer the simple life. They talk a lot, which is all right because they often have something to say that’s really worthwhile.”

  Miss Hardy looked pleased.

  “The stars insist you’d make a good critic or perhaps a repairman!” Chet went on.

  Miss Hardy looked at him through her steel-rimmed spectacles and giggled. “Thank you, Chet. I can’t say that I’m charmed by that repairman bit! The rest, however, is quite satisfactory. If every horoscope you draw up is as complimentary as mine, you’ll have more friends than you need.”

  Chet grinned.

  “I’ll see that you get a big slice of my angel food cake as a reward,” Aunt Gertrude concluded as she pushed through the swinging door to the kitchen.

  “How about your own horoscope, Chet?” Joe inquired teasingly.

  “I’m Cancer. The sign of the Crab. You fellows can probably guess that I’m fated to be a good cook! The signs haven’t been on my side recently, but I’m happy to report that a change is coming. The moon and the Crab ...”

  The ringing of the phone interrupted Chet. Joe picked it up. An unfamiliar voice came through.

  “Hardy?”

  “Joe Hardy speaking.”

  “I have a message for you and your brother.”

  “Go ahead.” Joe motioned Frank and Chet to put their ears close to the receiver.

  “We’ve heard about you gadflies. Take a friendly word of advice. If you’re smart, you’ll have nothing more to do with Spencer Given. Turn down whatever deal he offered you and get out while you’re still in one piece.”

  “Who are you?” Joe demanded.

  “Never mind. And by the way, don’t ride on the Flying Express. It’s dangerous!”

  The man hung up.

  CHAPTER III

  Hot Merchandise

  “LEAPING Librasl” Chet blurted out. “Who was that?”

  Joe replaced the instrument. “No way of telling.” He frowned. “But he doesn’t like Hardy and Company.”

  “Still he wasn’t really interested in us,” Frank said. “His purpose was to give a warning about the Flying Express. I’ve a hunch he’s one of Spencer Given’s enemies.”

  “Could be,” Joe said. “Probably tailed Given to our house, figured out a deal was in the offing, and made his move to scare us off before we got near the hydrofoil. He must have phoned from somewhere near the house after he saw Given leave.”

  “The corner phone booth two blocks away!” Frank exclaimed. “He may still be there!”

  The three raced out of the house and down the street. They were a block away from the phone booth when the doors folded inward. They saw a flash of blond hair and a maroon dress on the figure that emerged, slipped hurriedly into a foreign sports car, and sped off.

  “Well, I’ll be a monkey’s uncle! It’s a woman!” Joe gasped. “But the caller sounded like a man!”

  “Maybe she has a deep voice,” Frank said. “Let’s see if she left any clues to her identity.”

  The Hardys gave the booth a rapid once-over without finding anything. Then Chet went in, flipped open the coin return slot, and extracted a dime.

  “Jupiter is fully aligned with Uranus!” He chuckled. “No wonder my luck has changed! If it holds up from here on out, I’ll only need a one-way ticket to Cape Cutlass!”

  “Now what does that mean?” Frank inquired.

  “Can’t tell you yet,” Chet replied mysteriously. “My horoscope says I’d better stay mum for the time being. I’ll let you in on it when the signs are more favorable.”

&n
bsp; Joe, who had been scrutinizing the area, bent over and plucked something from the gutter. He held the object up with a significant wink. It was a thick cigar butt, still burning. The other end was smudged with lipstick.

  “That was no lady,” he quipped. “It was a man with a taste for smelly black stogies.”

  Frank nodded. “Pretty clever way to trail friend Given. He’s in a tizzy about boatmen and trainmen and bus drivers. But he wouldn’t suspect a blonde in a sports car.”

  Chet looked worried. He realized that the threat was not an idle one. And Chet had an aversion to danger, even though the Hardys could always count on him when help was needed.

  “Maybe he or she or whatever it was will blow up the Flying Express after all,” he said. “Do you suppose we should get the police in on it?”

  “No. Given certainly doesn’t want that. It would be bad publicity for his boat. Also, there’s nothing definite to base a complaint on,” Frank decided.

  “You’re not getting cold feet, are you, Chet?” Joe teased.

  “Who, me? Of course not.”

  “All right, then let’s go on with the game.”

  That evening Fenton Hardy returned home. He was surprised to learn that his sons had made a deal with Spencer Given to guard the Flying Express.

  “I’ve heard about the man,” Mr. Hardy said. “He’s a shrewd operator. Speculates in real estate and hopes he can trigger a land boom on Cape Cutlass by means of his hydrofoil. You can see why he’s concerned. He’s staking a fortune on the success of the Flying Express.”

  “He must have quite a bit of money,” Frank put in.

  “He does. But he’s known to be rather stingy.”

  Frank and Joe laughed. “We noticed that. He told us that he couldn’t afford to hire you. That’s why we got the job.”

  Mr. Hardy grinned. “Well, you know what you’re doing. No doubt you’ll have an exciting ride to Providence. Just keep an eye open for that wolf in disguise you mentioned, or it might be too exciting for comfort.”

  “We will,” Joe promised.

  “Meanwhile, I’m leaving for Shark Island. The State Police have asked me to track down a gang who specialize in stripping small craft. They’re clever pros with a profitable gimmick.”

  “What is it?” Joe asked eagerly.

  “It seems that first they go around taking orders for engines, props, radios, anything needed to keep a boat operating in the water,” Mr. Hardy said. “Then they case the shoreline for unprotected boats.”

  “What a racket!” Frank reflected. “Satisfaction guaranteed! Orders filled right on time with hot merchandise!”

  “That’s about the size of it,” Mr. Hardy concurred. “They haven’t gotten this far north yet, so I’m going down to Shark Island to do some undercover work.”

  “That’s about fifty miles below Cape Cutlass, isn’t it?” Joe asked.

  “Right. It seems like a logical lair for the gang, especially since most of the activity is going on around there.”

  “Dad, maybe we can help you,” Frank suggested. “We’ll only be tied up with Given for a few runs!”

  “There’s not much you boys can do for me at this point in the case. I won’t have a clear picture until I’ve snooped around Shark Island. However, it would be a good idea for you to keep in touch. Here’s my phone number.” Mr. Hardy handed Frank a slip of paper.

  “Also,” he went on, “you’d better activate the electronic beeper on the Sleuth. Even though there haven’t been any thefts up here yet, the gang might expand at any time.”

  Frank nodded. “And we certainly don’t want to lose our boat!”

  Mrs. Hardy packed her husband’s bag. She was a slender, pretty woman who had long since learned what a detective needed in the field. Disguises, bugging devices, emergency rations—all went into the suitcase before she snapped it shut.

  Shortly afterward Fenton Hardy was on his way to Shark Island.

  At breakfast the next morning the phone rang. Joe reached for the instrument with suppressed excitement. “If it’s Dad, perhaps he’s got an assignment for us already!”

  The voice of Chet Morton bubbled through the receiver. “Guess what? Lady Luck is really smiling today. I’ve got a job!”

  “No kidding? As an astrologer?” Joe asked.

  “Of course not. I wanted to work for the summer, so I had applied at the Starfish Marina in Cape Cutlass a while ago. Naturally I didn’t expect any answer while the Cancerian conjunctions weren’t right.”

  Joe whistled. “I see. But now they are?”

  “Yes sir. The moon is marching on through the Zodiac. The owner phoned and told me to report immediately. That’s what I meant yesterday when I said I might only need a one-way ticket.”

  “Well, that’s great, Chet. But what about our sleuthing on the hydrofoil? If you’re leaving right away—”

  “Who said I won’t wait till tomorrow?” Chet pretended to be hurt. “I promised you I’d come along. I’m a man of my word!”

  “Okay. We’ll see you in the morning, then.”

  Frank and Joe started out early the next day to pick up their friends. Callie and Iola were waiting in front of the Morton farm.

  “Chet left already,” Iola called out. “He said he had some sleuthing work to do—on his own!”

  The two girls were attractive in different ways. Iola Morton, a brunette, had mobile features, sparkling eyes, and a lot of vitality. She was wearing a pink suit. Callie Shaw was blond, tall, and slender. She wore a yellow skirt and striped jacket.

  As they were driving toward the dock, Iola remarked, “I think it was just swell of you boys to invite us along on the Flying Express.”

  “I think so, too,” Callie declared. “How did you ever manage to get the tickets?”

  Joe did the explaining while Frank drove. Callie sat up straight, her hands in her lap, and stated primly, “Well, we might have known! Whenever Frank and Joe take us out, we’re bound to end up in the middle of a mystery!”

  “I’m not complaining.” Iola laughed. “A ride on the Flying Express is worth a mystery!”

  Frank parked the car and the four got into the line of passengers boarding the hydrofoil. Joe presented the tickets that Spencer Given had provided, and they stepped onto the deck.

  Everything was new and shiny, an attractive combination of fiberglass, chromium, and highly polished wood. The pilot, a salty man about thirty, sat behind the wheel. Given stood beside him, beaming with satisfaction.

  “I hope Chet gets here on time,” Joe remarked. “Didn’t he tell you anything about where he was going?”

  Iola shook her head. “No. He said he’d meet us on the Flying Express. He was sure he wouldn’t have any trouble getting aboard, since Given invited him.”

  Frank and Joe walked around the narrow rear deck while Callie and Iola stepped down into the long cabin, where comfortable seats were arranged in rows on either side of a center aisle. The passengers were chatting gaily, but Chet was not among them.

  Finally the Hardys came inside. “Chet didn’t make the scene,” Frank reported.

  As he spoke, the engine started with a muffled roar and the Flying Express began to move. Slowly it churned away from the pier and out into Barmet Bay.

  “Chet’s got me worried,” Joe said anxiously as the waves flashed by more quickly.

  The hull rose above the surface of the water and the foils beneath came into view. Soon the Flying Express was skimming at top speed out across the bay on its way to Providence.

  “Certainly no sabotage on that take-off,” Iola commented with a thrill in her voice.

  “So far so good,” Joe agreed. “If the rest of the trip is like this, Mr. Given should be a happy man by the time we get to Cape Cutlass.”

  Frank rubbed his cheek. “That’s where we come in. It’s our business to see that the Flying Express does have a smooth trip. The take-off is only the beginning. There’ll be many more chances for sabotage farther down the bay.”

&
nbsp; He turned to the girls. “You two can enjoy yourselves while we have a look-see. Joe, suppose you take the bow and find out if anything’s stirring. I’ll take the stern. We can compare notes afterward.”

  Iola and Callie settled into comfortable lounge seats. Joe went forward. Everything seemed peaceful throughout the vessel.

  Frank stepped onto a catwalk at the stern. The wind buffeted him and he had to hang onto the railing. Below him a foil hissed along the surface and the propellers kicked up white foam. Fascinated by the hydrofoil’s principle of physics, he leaned over for a better look.

  Suddenly Frank sensed someone creeping up behind him. He tried to dodge. Too late! A pair of hands struck him heavily between the shoulders, flipping him over the side!

  Down he plunged toward the protruding foil —and toward the churning propeller beneath it!

  CHAPTER IV

  A Near Miss

  WILDLY Frank threw his arms out. His hands clutched the upper end of the foil and braked his descent.

  For a moment he teetered there, straining every muscle to save himself from falling onto the deadly propeller, whirling like a buzz saw only a few feet below. His grip held! Frank pulled himself against the foil. He wrapped his arms tightly around it, lifting his feet clear of the foaming water which tore at his body. His shouts for help were soundless in the din.

  How long could his strength endure? The foil was slippery under his fingers because of the spray washing over it. Desperately Frank tried to hold on. But his grip was beginning to weaken! He started to slide down the foil toward the water! In a moment he would be caught in the propeller !

  Frantically he glanced up, and with hazy vision was amazed to see a girl looking down. Spotting Frank half in the water, she froze momentarily, then shouted for help.

  “Man overboard! Man overboard!”

  Joe had gone to the stern to join Frank. He had just climbed to the rear deck when he heard the warning cry. Instinctively he knew that Frank was in trouble and rushed to alert the pilot, who cut the power.

  The propellers stopped whirling and the Flying Express settled slowly to a stop in the middle of the bay. Joe and the pilot lowered a line and Frank was pulled onto the deck.